Natalie Bowen
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Primarily, I am a mother of two delightful daughters, ages 7 and 5. I work in corporate America to earn a decent paycheck and enjoy some limited benefits. I am an average white middle class Kentuckian. I am not a writer by trade. I am one of those English majors who never did much with her degree. But I read, and occasionally I write. I was once a voracious writer, and am moving towards that place again and want to develop my writing.
Background: As I see it, I have dual citizenship: I am a Louisville girl by birth, and an Appalachian girl by blood and spirit. I was born and raised in the River City, but both of my parents have roots in Powell County, Kentucky, and thus, I have spent many happy days there throughout my 37 years. I consider the region my paradise, and the place that calls me home. |
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Placeholder Girl
When lovers leave me, they don’t say goodbye. Their vibrant affections fade like a child’s drawing hung in a window. Time goes by and one day I notice the primary colors are now pastel-hued. You come-here/go-away boy, stop your empty prattle. Save your defenses for your mother. Go find a new playmate and quit wasting my time. Ain’t nobody want my messy heart, spilling out all over the place with no sense to restrain itself. When lovers leave me, they don’t say goodbye. ************************************************************************************ |
Summer Night
As I was driving home from a party tonight, I wanted to take the highway To smell the rain that came through a few hours before And feel the breeze on my face—It still has the same effect as when I was a free child. Driving down Blankenbaker, I was the only one out, and I slowed my car To hear the crickets And other night creatures. …Which led my thoughts to an open window in the country: listening to my mamaw snoring beneath the cool quilt next to me. ************************************************************************************************** |
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The Flip Side
When peering through the rain becomes the sound of static A thin barrier between my voice and you Green gray soaked No reception, but my body Should be an electric conductor Bright enough to reach to entice to enrage Staticy telephone Snowy television Hazy brain Clarity Why, it does always rain ************************************************** |
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Catcher Dichotomous grannies tumbling within me And when I understand their magic, I will be able to shine To shimmy with delight at the uproarious laughter – the grace of seeing myself for what I am To take myself seriously Only when I recognize what it feels like to be free All the little things I tell myself not to forget “Get This. Remember It. This is what it’s all about.” A lifetime pursuit. I will walk through life putting all of those pebbles in my pocket only to have them fall out of my reach again. I can never seem to find a durable patch for the hole in my pocket. Not written words, not mental bookmarks, nor photos or even constant reminders. This search is my life. ***************************************************************************************************** |
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Conductor
Music entices, ignites, inspires, incites, derives, divulges. It makes me stay in THIS moment. So rare. My mind always somewhere else. Swimming down some removed current. I wish I was an artist so I could express all of this rage, love, sadness, beauty, grief, regret, hope, clarity. It drives me crazy not to get it out. Shut down. Closed off. Cold dead veins. Cauterized. I’m like a frozen pond with so much life beneath the surface. Painful digging through inches of ice to find who I am. My eyes tear up at such beautiful wistful moments. These moments that make up a life: My children playing with seeds, leaves, berries, in awe of a spider, a dead flower. I love seeing the wonder in their faces at the smallness of life. I draw a line down the center of my face. How far I’ve come. How quickly I regress. Hard to stay focused. Back to the music. PURE NATALIE when the music moves me and my self dissolves. *************************************************************************************************** |
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POP!
“Words are slippery and thoughts are viscous.” –Henry Adams Light bulbs shatter within my heart What does it mean to know something? Perceptions change at the speed of a light burned out – pop! I thought it was hard to awaken today… Feverishly working it out. If solutions manifested like the whirring expressions of Keith Jarrett’s piano… Pained processes—Instant freedom must be paid for with a long belabored struggle. Walls must be scaled I throw lightbulbs and they only cause me to focus energy on housekeeping ************************************************************************************ |
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Dishearten
And when he speaks, he makes the rivers retreat. The vinegar tongue like a masterful wagging finger- nyeh, nyeh, nyeh. One needs a little sweetness. *********************************************************************************** |
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The Barn I walk through the barn, except I don’t just walk through the barn. The soft dirt like silk from so many years of feet compounding dirt to powder. The fine grains tickle my nose and I sneeze with my whole body. I look up to see a recently-built loft, but my mind knows that there is tobacco hanging there. And before me is a stringy-haired girl lifting her foot out of the suctioned manure, trying to keep up with her Papaw. Show him she’s tough and not weak-hearted. A big man, a stinky man, an alcohol sponge with a tender love for this child. She makes him remember the sacredness of life. The barn swallow dives in through the open door, floating in the expanse of the barn’s cool air. Papaw shows her how to work the cow’s teats so she will let down the morning milk. The pail tings with the sound of the milk’s forceful stream. She is happy to see this violent man’s patience with the animal and wonders how she could help him stay in this peace. When their chores are done, she sets her tiny hand in his and they head towards home. ***************************************************************************************************** |
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Unrequited Shafts of light scattered through the clouds to compose a perfect balance of strong lines and soft edges. My eyes respond by reflecting the scene back to the sky. I don’t give anything more. The white puffs move to fill in the holes as the light retreats. It will be weeks before the veil is lifted again. *********************************************************************************************************************** |
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My Homage to Bluegrass
Primordial—jangling of a banjo Whiny and piny in voice Fiddles’ friction—a grasshopper on speed. Words that have weaved in and out of dozens of songs, Evolving, but creating a sense of permanence. “Such a short time to stay here, and a long time to be gone,” “Taking my body from my soul.” Those high lonesome sounds sing to me a place that is indelibly mine. A sense of place is the power of a self…”Rather be in some dark holler…” The old homeplace, a place where his children can always come home. No matter where I am—emotionally, spiritually, or geographically-- I know where my home is When I hear the pickin’ and sangin’ of the bluegrass. |
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The Small Moments
The streetlamp pulses through the freshly budded leaves of the maple tree.
The palest of yellows against midnight blue.
Glowing like paper lanterns.
I softly breathe of the cool night air.
Crisp perfectly cool air lung branches smooooooth effortless act of being alive.
In the same breath, I can smell the fecundity.
Spring.
At my feet, hyacinths.
All my electric senses making notes.
In these seconds.
A dog is barking.
The late-hour traffic.
The peace that comes with sleeping babies.
The neighbor’s noisy gas meter.
A bird singing.
It’s not morning.
Don’t get ahead of yourself.
Consciousness ripples.
The streetlamp pulses through the freshly budded leaves of the maple tree.
The palest of yellows against midnight blue.
Glowing like paper lanterns.
I softly breathe of the cool night air.
Crisp perfectly cool air lung branches smooooooth effortless act of being alive.
In the same breath, I can smell the fecundity.
Spring.
At my feet, hyacinths.
All my electric senses making notes.
In these seconds.
A dog is barking.
The late-hour traffic.
The peace that comes with sleeping babies.
The neighbor’s noisy gas meter.
A bird singing.
It’s not morning.
Don’t get ahead of yourself.
Consciousness ripples.
